Sketches of Adventure
by Blackdeer7
Summary: This series of one-shots is bound around Maori Hawke, female mage extraordinaire and star-crossed lover of Isabela- although the pirate fights the label profusely, albeit a little too profusely if you ask some. Adventure/Romance/Whatnot FemHawke/Isabela
1. The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

These stories are bound around Maori Hawke, female mage extraordinaire and star-crossed lover of Isabela- although the pirate queen fights the label profusely, albeit a little too profusely if you ask some.

While growing up, Maori's father, Malcolm, instructed the apostate in the ways of magic, but also attempted to bestow upon her the wisdom of his years and experience. Each chapter- with the exclusion of this prologue- begins with a conversation between father and daughter which has some reflection on the story about to be told.

Just to make things crystal clear, whether you leave a Review, FAV, Alert or Lurk, I am extraordinarily grateful for your interest. Time is valuable, so the amount you spend reading [and hopefully enjoying] the fic is very much appreciated.

Feedback is a wonderful thing! Motivating, charming, provoking, challenging, fascinating, inspiring… and a whole heck-of-a-lot of other "-ing" type words! Thank you!

Another note: The following stories are a collection of one-shot "sketches" and will not always be in chronological order. Originally, this fic started with story told in chapter 3, but once I had a clear head on how I wanted to proceed, I edited it and rearranged the order. If you have previously read that story, then I encourage you to read it again to see how it is folded back into this collection.

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><p><span><strong>Prologue<strong>

I will weep no more for the lost- disquiet in their restless sleep. I have no more tears to shed for my youth- wrested as it was from place to place with a constant eye gazing upon the path behind. Life in me is still strong and I will not grieve for what was or for what might have been. Mine is a different path and I must follow where it leads.

I look out from my high perch onto the rolling waves of the blue sea and I hear the voices of my family calling to me across the years. I close my eyes and see them now as they were in my earliest memories. They stand before me and I enter once more into that glad time when we were young and the Blight had not yet come – before the fleeing and the ugliness that followed.

I have decided to take quill to parchment and write. Perhaps writing will ease the long months of my confinement. Perhaps my words will hear a measure of the peace that has been denied throughout my life.

In any case, I have little else to do; I am a captive – made a willing prisoner in this place upon the water. So I will write: for myself, for those who come after and for the voices that cry out not to be forgotten.


	2. The Beginning

**The Beginning**

"_Your Mother tells me you got yourself into trouble today, Maori."_

"_I… I am sorry, Father, but I couldn't stand by and watch that Templar bully the man. I didn't use magic, but I got in his way."_

"_What happened, my dear?"_

"_I threatened to tell the Reverend Mother of his actions. Before he could do anything, his fellows pulled him away. Now he has his eyes upon me."_

"_You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something at sometime in your life_."

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><p>My father told me about the different schools of magic before I could dress on my own. I have no experience with the teaching methods of a Circle, as my father preferred aptitude and inclination over focused, driven learning. That's not to say I wasn't drilled about cause and effect, about the natural balance of the physical world or about the dangers and pitfalls of the Fade—of demons. Every mage knows of demons. If they say they don't, then you can call them a liar, as well. I remember hearing the first faint whispers of demons when I was five. That's when Father started my training in earnest.<p>

My parents say they knew I had magic within my blood the day I was born. My mother's labor lasted less than hour and throughout it she only experienced a mild discomfort. According to the midwife, the whole event was unusual being that it was her first child. My mother tells the story as though I wanted to see the world and jumped out her womb, but my father told a different tale. Nothing ominous or grandiose, just a simple beginning: I wanted out, so I wasted no time. That is reflective of my personality—I have very little patience and even less when my destination is in sight.

I was an only child until the age of five, then my mother birthed twins that could not have been more opposite: Bethany and Carver.

Although twins, Bethany and Carver were dissimilar to their very cores. One wanted to go left, the other to go right. One picked up a staff, the other a sword. One was female, the other male. One actually liked having me as a sister, the other saw me as direct competition.

Even though I was the older sister, talking with Bethany, having her around, was a calming influence. On any given day, I had a short temper, but when it came to things that I felt were unjust my indignation was provoked instantly. Shopkeepers who took advantage of the poor by indenturing them to slavery or worse. Individuals who abused others—especially women, children or animals—because they felt impotent in their own life and were attempting to regain a measure of power. Templars in general. My protective streak went ballistic when face-to-face with the strong arm of the Chantry. One of Bethany's many gifts was the ability to calm my spirit and offer the cool hand of reason in those dissident situations.

With Carver, it was completely different. We were like fire and ice—at opposite ends of the spectrum all of the time. To my chagrin, he openly admired the Templars who traveled through Lothering on their journeys sequestering circle mages or hunting apostates. Maybe it was his disdain for me that fed his desire to deny magic, thereby in a way denying me, or maybe he was attempting to find a niche of his own. Either way, by denying magic, he also denied Father and Bethany, but neither of them appeared to notice, or if they did, they never spoke of it. I envied their ignorance. My short temper wouldn't allow such leniency and our arguments, both loud and volatile, would have made most run in fear.

One truth always existed though: he was my brother, I was his sister, and you don't betray family. Carver and I could disagree about the color of the sky until we were a hair's breadth from striking each other, but I never questioned his loyalty or love when it came to the family or me.

As I mentioned, my relationship with Bethany was easier, less temperamental, which I believe was tied to our innate bond to natural schools of magic. As young children we were prone to call fire and ice to our sides, especially when angered, but where her interests veered into my father's healing talents, mine stayed woven within nature. By the time I was twelve, with the slighted coaxing of my mind and will, I could call upon the forces of air, fire, water and earth. My father was impressed with my natural aptitude, but he made sure to instill a sense of caution and respect for the magic coursing through my veins. He also made sure I knew how to blend into a crowd and how not to bring attention to myself.

From the day I was born until the year I turned fourteen, we were on the move from place to place. My father spun tales as though we were Rivaini nomads traveling on exotic adventures, but as the years wore on his health declined. Eventually, we chanced taking up a permanent residence just outside the city of Lothering. It suited us well.

For naught of their own doing, Carver and my mother were outsiders within their own home. It wasn't as though my father, Bethany and I planned it that way, but when three mages live under one roof with two non-mages, it tends to happen. There were times when we just didn't speak the same language. I remember one incident in particular. I was fifteen years old and we were still living on the outskirts of Lothering. It was an early spring morning, the kind when winter's breath can still be felt in the early morning air. Bethany and I were outside working on our meditation exercises. Or rather, we were supposed to be working on them. Both of us were too excited about the latest lesson we'd had with father and were talking about the feel of fire across our skin and calling ice from the very air we breathed. Carver, who was practicing his own type of mediation, was near enough to overhear our conversation. After listening about our success with tempering the elements, he proceeded to escalate his attack upon a hapless tree with his wooden sword.

Carver, through no fault of his own, would never be able to understand the feeling—the thrill—of calling wild energy to his side.

The decision to end our wanderings and settle just outside Lothering came initially as a welcome surprise. Mother and Father said they wanted to give us a more stable upbringing and I was eagered by the prospect of finally having a place to call home. I found out later that the reason they spun was a lie. My father had become ill and no amount of herbal remedies or magic could stem his deteriorating health. This knowledge led to a festering bitterness and oftentimes I found myself yearning for the nomadic lifestyle once again.

I think Father knew his time with us would not be long and being the eldest, he looked to me to help Mother guide and protect the family, so my studies shifted once we had settled. Not only was I being coaxed about cause and effect of magic, now I was being put through the rigors of moral and ethical doctrine. He was fond of saying, "My magic will serve what is best in me, not that which is most base." Although his verbal tutelage was challenging and growth oriented, the most beneficial teaching came from witnessing his actions and how he carried himself through life. He and I would travel short distances from home—a day or two away at most—giving aid to those in need and accepting whatever payment could be offered; food, coin or livestock. Even if nothing could be offered, Father still did what he could to help. During our travels we assisted farmers, mercenaries, laborers and from time to time the Chasind folk. Occasionally we encountered bandits, but they never expected two apostates with flames emanating from their fingertips.

We were always careful never to give our real names and disguised ourselves as best we could. As part of my deception, I would paint a red slash across the bridge of my nose to mark me as a Chasind "wilder." Most assumed it was blood, but in truth it was a pigment made from crushed insects and berries. Father thought it brilliant and took to dressing similarly to the wilder folk, as well. Fereldans were inherently leery of the Chasind, so they were less likely to ask questions or make idle talk. Those who did ask questions either got a circumvented truth or stony silence as their answer.

For seven years, we carved out a place of our own upon the Fereldan landscape and for the first time we were allowed to fill our lives with comfortable patterns. My father would school Bethany and I as best he could in the ways of magic and then he would spend time imparting Carver with his limited knowledge of swordplay. We all took part in the maintenance and upkeep of the gardens and grounds and even pitched in with the cooking. When Father and I would travel, Mother would spend time teaching Bethany and Carver about reading, writing and various scholarly pursuits. I think she missed the literary and artistic culture available to her while growing up in an aristocratic lifestyle while in Kirkwall.

I always knew that window of idyllic life with my family would not last.

Throughout my father's final months in this world, he was confined mostly to the bed. After he died, everything seemed to become more difficult and I felt everyone's gaze shift to me for direction. Although Mother was still the head of the household, I continued to support us with my magic. I was not a healer but was able to find work doing other things. When healing was needed, I would bring Bethany along and we worked in seclusion in order to give the illusion that I was doing the healing. I was determined to protect my family at any cost, but the chaos about to unfold was beyond my control.

News of the Fifth Blight came and Carver enlisted in the King's army—he wanted to protect his family, too. Less than a month later, he returned, injured and with news of the betrayal at Ostagar. We gathered what we could and fled the darkspawn horde as fast as we were able, but met with both fortune and woeful tragedy. Joined by Aveline Vallen—a Lieutenant in the King's army—and her Templar husband, Wesley, we carved a path through the darkspawn until we were almost overrun. Auspiciously, we were saved by "The Witch of the Wilds" but not before my beloved sister, Bethany, fell to the hands of an Ogre while protecting Mother. I was unable to save her; an failure which still haunts me to this day. And since that travesty wasn't enough for the gods, another was visited upon us—Wesley had contracted The Taint and Aveline had to end his life. I don't envy her, but thankfully his end came from merciful hands.

Ultimately we ended up in Kirkwall, the City of Chains, where mages were treated as dogs to be leashed.

As if a premonition of things to come, upon sailing through those angry gates, I remembered my father's last words to me: "_Choose your friends carefully, Maori. Your enemies will choose you_."

The moment I stepped upon that aged Tevinter prison, a peaceful life was not mine to claim.


	3. Predator and Prey

**Predator and Prey**

_"Father, did you love Mother from the start?"_

_"From the moment I first saw her mother, I was _passionate_ about her. My feelings were born of desire, but grew into a steadfast, undying love."_

_"From what I've seen, what you and Mother share appears… uncommon." _

_"Finding a real love is like a treasure hunt, my dear. Even with the best map and unwavering perseverance, you still need a heap of blind luck to find it." _

_"Wonderful. Luck and I have never been on good terms."_

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><p>Maker's Breath.<p>

Yes, when in doubt, run away and let me handle it. Sodding Templar idiots.

Although it was gratifying to tell Knight Captain Cullen that his righteousness couldn't save him or his men from their own lust, dealing with Templars always put me in a foul mood, so I left Aveline, Fenris and Varric to fend for themselves in the Gallows.

I was restless. Bored. The predator within would not be quelled with meditation or drink. Not this night, so I set about in search of prey. I combed the streets of Hightown to no avail. The streets had been cleaned of thugs weeks ago. Then I found myself wandering the docks, but thanks to the city guard and some civilian volunteers, which shall not be named, no foolhardy thieves were attempting to ply their trade on unsuspecting, or even openly brazen individuals walking the dimly lit alleyways.

By the time I sauntered into Lowtown, I knew where my journey would end. I didn't even bother with the formalities. After swinging by Merrill's hovel to make sure all was secure and checking on uncle Gamlen's flea palace, I slipped into my final destination: The Hanged Man.

As I stepped into the establishment, the stench of stale beer and sweat relentlessly assailed my senses. If I hadn't been prepared for the onslaught, I may have vomited on the spot. The place was packed with a varied bunch of unruly patrons: off-duty dockworkers and guardsmen, government officials attempting to avoid the pretentious, and refugees spending their last coin on alcohol in hopes of forgetting their plight. The low lighting helped to keep faces obscured. I was grateful for this. I didn't want to be recognized by the next soul in need of help.

I had no illusions about my ability to call shadows to my side, to blend into the very darkness around me- it did not exist, but after three years of watching masters of the art, I had picked up a few tricks. Or at least enough skill to not call attention to myself when entering a crowded room.

Unless _**she**_ were there. My prey.

I was not nearly as skilled as her, but with four years of hunting experience upon this terrain, I was adept at maneuvering my way through the crowd and I'd made it to my corner table without her being the wiser. Or so I thought.

I should have known better.

She stood at the bar, amidst her hunting ground, a lioness among lambs—able to call others around her with an innate essence of seduction. The way they hovered, like moths to a flame, it seemed almost elemental. Her prospective lovers swarmed whether she wanted them to or not. Something divine appeared to cling around her like a subtle vapor, a pirate queen with a halo of enticement – intoxicating, thrilling - holding within it the promise of attaining pleasures never ascended before.

This last year, I'd taken up the habit of bringing Varric with me on my various excursions through and around Kirkwall. He was more suited to picking locks and she'd rather spend her time dueling or in pursuit of other forms of physical activity. He was also good for entertaining commentary while wading through whatever charitable adventure we were on, although he never called me 'slave driver' in the same silken undertones that emanated from her voice. Those heady, lyrical tones that curled my lips in a feral smile and sent shivers down my spine in remembrance of more intimate moments when they were being whispered softly in my ear.

She had an uncanny ability, a heightened sense where I was concerned, to somehow know when I was in close proximity. I say this with confidence, because I had it with her, as well. Maybe this was the case with all predator and prey. Did the deer always know that the wolf was lurking somewhere in the shadows?

As she turned around from her placement at the bar our eyes locked, all pretense of having entered unseen vanishing in that instance. Neither of us gave any ground or shied away although the longer I held her gaze, the more the room and other patrons seemed to fade from view. Even the lines between the hunter and hunted slowly began to blur amidst the passionate swathes of color and reason.

A delicate, sly smile formed upon her lips and while our fixed stare began to smolder, her smile transformed into a toothy, wolfish grin. She pushed off from the bar and sauntered through the crowd, laughing and flirting, but her eyes never left mine for long. She pranced through the hunting ground, reveling in the acknowledgment that she'd been seen by me.

She was as tempestuous as the sea she loved. No longer prey, she offered herself up as bait.

I watched as she worked her way through the myriad of patrons. The long strides of her shapely legs – bare thighs showing their hidden strength with each movement. The mesmerizing sway of her lissome, serpentine hips. The way she intermittently stopped to pose, making sure I had the best view of her abundant curves and bewitching body. She continued her graceful dance between drunken sods and touchy-feely fools emboldened by their drink and too foolish to know of the various dangers hidden within her bodice. The course she methodically plotted brought her to the corridor leading to her room. With one last sultry look in my direction, she slipped down the dark hallway and into the shadows.

I waited a few seconds, pretending I had a choice, then I took the bait she offered and followed her back to her den. Even if I had wanted, that night I could not deny myself, for my need to devour and be devoured was great. She knew this. When her eyes locked with mine, she sensed it and the scent of danger, the thrill of the hunt flickered in those excited eyes as stars within the night sky.

Swept up in the sensation of luring and being lured, I crept back to her room. She was a luscious temptation I could no longer deny.

I found her door closed, but not locked. I slowly pushed it opened only to discover a room that appeared to be empty. A single candle illuminated the space in a flickering, otherworldly light. As I cautiously stepped through the threshold, I was immediately overtaken. I felt her body crash into mine pitching me off-balance and my staff slipped from my fingers. If I hadn't been crushed into the wall, I would surely have fallen to the floor. The door slammed shut as her hungry lips descended upon mine, voracious and insistent. Her hands were everywhere at once: weaving in my hair, digging into my hips, pulling off my robe, kneading my thighs, slipping between my legs.

Without hesitation, I met her ardent advance with a passionate bombardment of my own.

She loved it when I took her with force. As though the elements I bent to my will empowered me in such a way that my desire to devour her—overwhelm her– became tangible embodiments able to assault her senses and quickly bring her to the crest of her release.

She loved it because for all of my intensity, for all of my directed passion, she could quell the fury with but a word. Knowing she had this power was just the leash she needed to allow herself to tumble—to recklessly forsake herself in the moment and fully abandon herself to our passion. For all of my professed control, I was unbound in her primal frenzy as well.

The sense of enraptured bliss that took shape under our skillful tongues and lips fed our longing while intrepid hands caressed and coaxed pleasures of the flesh, searing their brand upon each chaotic nerve ending. Heat and sweat radiated off from lean yet unexpectedly soft skin creating a slick landscape upon which our naked bodies thrust. Teeth exquisitely nipped and tenderly bit, leaving marks in their wake—some of which stayed for days afterward. She didn't mind because she gave as good as she got. Nails sensuously scratched their way across curves and salaciously dug into unprotected flesh until the rapturous waves bound between us zealously crashed and rose again. Each of us gasping and moaning in direct reflection of the fervent, rolling crescendos pulsating in an unrestrained cadence through our bodies—swirling deliciously from head to toe– until they finally drifted away as sunset rays slipping behind the sea's horizon.

The roles of predator and prey, of hunter and hunted, were lost within the realms of passion and exhaustion.

I stayed a few hours until I sensed rather than saw that night had turned to dawn. It was a silent understanding that we shared: neither of us would stay the whole night in the other's bed. Not unless asked, and she had never yet asked me to stay. I was not bitter or resentful because of it. In my own way, I understood the illusion of protection and control it offered – the boundaries it produced. She was a free spirit who relished living in the moment and I admired that spirit- I did not want to break it.

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><p><em>"Remember Maori, love needs time to grow and blossom. The seed doesn't come to bear fruit until it is ready and has had time to grow properly. Watching it and urging it will only hinder its growth. When you find it, just step back and let go."<em>


	4. All That Remains

**Author's Note:**

This is one of those snapshot -those scenes- that burned into my existence while playing the game and continually tugged and pulled at me until I wrote it down. Now I share it with you in the hopes that not only will it tug and pull at you, the reader, but that you will enjoy the moment as it is unfolded.

This is the end scene from the quest _All That Remains_. Forewarning: spoilers are embedded within.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! And for those who Fav and Alert, I will be adding more "sketches" to the fray soon!

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><p><span><strong>All That Remains<strong>

"_Father, why must we keep moving from place to place?"_

"_We have to stay ahead of our enemies, my dear." _

"_But, Father, I don't understand… where are we going?"_

"_Maori, listen to me. In the dark times ahead, you will need to remember this: where we are going is not as important as the fact that we are moving."_

"_But why?"_

"_We mages are in a perpetual war, Maori, and the art of war is very simple. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can, strike as hard as you can, and then keep on moving."_

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><p><em>[In the lair of a killer…]<em>

Consumed by the tempestuous rage piercing my mind, splitting my soul, I called down a searing inferno from the abysmal throne of the Black Gates.

I wanted to burn his vile essence to ash.

He claimed he had touched the face of the Maker himself and survived. He would not survive me.

I squeezed frozen death from the very air to crush his corrupt bones to nothingness. I ripped stone from earth and pummeled it upon his weakening protective barriers. I continued my unrelenting assault of rage-born primal wrath by binding wind-swept force to my will and hammering it down. I called forth lightning and screamed unintelligible words of righteous fury until my throat was raw and could voice my madness no longer. When his dark energies finally fell to my elemental ferocity, my rabid attack became physical. I viciously swung my staff in a savage arc that ended with the satisfying crunch of bone breaking and grey matter spewing.

Quentin- murderer, blood mage, defiler of women, lay dead at my feet.

Anguish took hold of my soul and I once again called flames from heights above bringing down a fiery tempest that scorched his crumpled form and the remaining undead he had ineffectively called to his aid. My companions watched in awe and dread as the sea of fire incinerated what was left of his decimated body – a pyre built upon malice and revenge. They had never seen me out of control. They had never seen me unshackle or unleash the full onslaught of wild energies within. I did not care. I did not stop. I could not stop. I had to cleanse the evil I had beheld.

I fell to my knees, arms outstretched, pulling and pushing my will to the frayed edges of existence until my vision blurred and my breath came in hitched intakes. Sweat stung at my eyes while smoke and cinder filled my lungs. I was spiraling, wishing the fires would cleanse me as well, but I felt no heat from their flames. I felt no searing pain. I felt nothing. I was numb.

A strong, cool hand grazed the skin upon my neck and came to rest on top of my shoulder. I looked up and saw Isabela. There was no fear or apprehension in her deep brown eyes, just clouded concern.

"Hawke. Stop. It's done. He's dead."

I was surprised - her soft tone played out like a gentle caress. It was unlike the pirate to be so careful, but then again, it was unlike me to be swept away by rage. My weary arms sank heavily to the ground as I released the fire and its ghostly wisps faded away as a desert sunset sinking upon the horizon.

Using my staff as leverage, and with Isabela's helpful tug upon my arm, I staggered to my feet, exhaustion keeping me close to the edge of passing out. After I had gotten my bearings and my addled vision cleared, my eyes frantically searched the room for _her_.

For Mother.

With faltering steps the necromantic, broken form approached me. I saw the vileness of the monster's features, the abominable things that had been done to the pieced together body. I felt and tasted the corruption of blood magic infused within it as the nauseating sensation of death slid across my flesh and infiltrated my being. The creature with my mother's face was a foul mockery of life- a repulsive image, but I rushed to it anyway. As it fell, I fell with it in an attempt to catch and lessen the fall with my own body. I cradled it in my arms, gentle and loving. I tenderly caressed its face and brushed tendrils of hair from its eyes while anguish filled my own broken form. I despairingly begged for its forgiveness.

As my mother's voice left this world in hushed tones, praising me, never to be heard again, I wept.

In the silent aftermath, I was pulled down by the oppressive undertow of my own grief and guilt.

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><p>In that dungeon, as I fed my rancor and called down the fiery inferno, something happened within my haze of rage and mania of vengeance. In those few moments of screaming at Andraste herself, I heard a whisper on the periphery of my awareness. A demon's voice.<p>

I've heard demons call to me in the past, but this was different. This was the first time in my life that I listened.


	5. Dead Champions Tell No Tales p1

**Author's Note****:**

Thank you to those who read, Fav, Alert and/or Review! Your interest and commentary are greatly appreciated!

This chapter has spoilers for the DLC: The Exiled Prince. Consider yourselves warned. *grin*

In addition, here's another thank you for those who have taken the time to review. Time is a valuable commodity, so I am honored by the time spent reading and the time spent giving feedback.

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><p><span><strong>Dead Champions Tell No Tales p1<strong>

"_To go through life without one thing is to travel through the world with your eyes closed. Do you know of what I speak, Maori?"_

_"If love is the answer, Father, could you rephrase the question?"_

"_When we love, we are courageous; and courage has nothing to do with being fearless, it's about being willing to experience fear, even dread, to do what we must, without guarantee of the outcome."_

"_Wonderful, it's a good thing the chantry is always in need of more sisters."_

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><p>Grand Cleric Elthina asked us to meet an agent of the Divine—the Orlesian Chantry matriarch—and tell her the situation in Kirkwall was not as bad as it seemed. I've always prided myself on not telling lies. If someone asked a question, then I assumed they were prepared for an honest answer, ill or not. This situation was no different. If the Divine wanted an honest answer about Kirkwall's circumstances, then she would get an honest answer. But I didn't want to see Kirkwall burn either, so I prepared myself to fall back on an ability that had been honed through the years—I would circumvent the truth. The agent—Sister Nightingale—would be told that Kirkwall's situation is not as bad as it seemed, but I would hold back the last part of that statement. "It is worse."<p>

Aveline, Sebastian and Isabela followed me as we left the Chantry and headed to the Viscount's throne room. Walking through the corridors of Hightown at night gave me ample time to reflect on things that had come to pass over the years. Some of it good, some of it bad, but if I am honest, the best and worst of it revolved around one particular swarthy person. Although I'd been to the Keep too many times to count over the last three years, I hadn't stepped into the throne room. No one had. Since the Viscount's death, the room had been sealed shut. Why an agent of the divine wanted to use that room as a meeting place was a mystery I was curious to solve.

I took the opportunity to steal a gaze of Isabela, my capricious pirate queen. Her natural grace and beauty flowed from her as seductive dance. Even the starlight was captivated, illuminating her deeply tanned skin giving it an almost ethereal glow and reflecting off her amber eyes, transforming them into moody, silver pools. My gaze lingered longer then intended and she caught my look, favoring me with a magnetic smile. Much like the snake charmers of Orlais, her movements were lyrical and hypnotic- beautiful as the dawn and dominant as the sun. They had an effect that maddened my soul and burned desire across my flesh.

I returned her smile, but the endearment quickly fell from my lips as a breath of melancholy made itself felt, like a chill and sudden gust from some unknown sea. The past had reared its turbulent head and my memory was unwillingly woven within less reputable, but maybe more noteworthy, choices of hers. Choices Aveline had wanted to flay her for…

"_She took it! That bitch-born-whore! She took the book!"_

"_Shit..."_

"_Hawke… If I get my hands on her…"_

"_That's enough, Aveline. Focus on what we have."_

"_We have NOTHING, Hawke. Absolutely nothing!"_

"_Yeah. I agree—that's not much to work with."_

The unsavory events of that evening- Isabela abandoning us... abandoning me; disappearing with the Tome of Koslun; and leaving only a note as an explanation were some of her more notorious actions that had been brutishly etched into my memories. Following her vanishing act, nightfall had cloaked us—Aveline, Fenris and I- in shadow, and a chilly fog had ridden in from the sea, blanketing Lowtown under an eerie haze. As we headed toward the Hanged Man to regroup and devise a plan of action, I remembered attempting to warm myself by calling heat from the earth below. I hadn't been sure if it was the cool air that sank through the layers of armor and cloth that bit at my skin, or if it was the prickly feel of betrayal.

After arriving at the drinking establishment, we had warmed ourselves by the hearth fires in Varric's room and then discussed our strategy. Some elves had broken Kirkwall law and then taken refuge with the Qunari saying they converted to the Qun. I had been unaware of their misdeeds, but doubted the sincerity of their convenient shift in belief. Aveline needed to talk with the Arishok, request that the fugitives be returned, before others in Kirkwall saw "Qun conversion" as an easy way to avoid justice. The consensus was simple, Aveline would address the Arishok in the morning and I would go with her. Over the years, I'd somehow gotten the Qunari leader's attention—maybe it had been my slightly impertinent attitude when dealing with him. Maybe I had been an amusing diversion from all of the other Bas in a city which was drowning in chaos. Or perhaps it was the irony of watching a Bas Saarebas rise through the hierarchy in a city that maligned its mages which had fascinated him. Whatever the reason, we all knew that I would have to accompany the guard captain when addressing the Arishok—it lessened the chance of him dismissing her outright.

Once that decision had been reached, the rest of the evening consisted of drinking and Aveline cursing Isabela. I had been in the mood for neither, so my tankard remained full and my lips devoid of words. The heaviness in my chest had made it hard to breathe let alone be an active participant in the conversation, so when Varric pulled out the cards for Wicked Grace, I stood and headed for home. The long walk to Hightown, illuminated only by the moonlight and errant torches, had reflected the state of my thoughts. Over and over, I rehashed the evening's events. Over and over, like madness, the black shapes of doubt consumed my mind. Had I been wrong to trust the pirate? How easy had it been for her to leave with the one thing that would have solved Kirkwall's Qunari problem? Did her selfishness know no bounds? Didn't she trust me when I said I'd help with Castillon? She didn't want me to face her pursuer, so instead she set me up to face off with an enraged Qunari zealot. Maybe my father was right, all warfare was based on deception… and in that very moment, Isabela seemed to be its master. The only reprieve came when I'd exhausted my mind and silence, like a poultice, came to heal the blows of malicious thought.

Bodahn and Fen'Harel- my Mabari war hound- had greeted me at the door of the estate. Merrill thought it was bad omen to name my pup after the Elven trickster god, but she said that if the god was as adorable as my boy, then she understood how the other gods had fallen prey to his charms. Fen'Harel's chest had puffed out when he heard the praise. I had retired to my room to change out of my armor and rest my weary form, but had found sleep to be an elusive companion. My mind, once again swirling with the events of the day and the impending doom of the morning—would not unbend. So I wandered restlessly through the house, like a prowling animal, seeking something to comfort me, but only succeeding in feeling lost within its vast emptiness. As I passed my bedroom mirror, I had chanced to look upon my reflection. My eyes were half veiled by slumberous tears, like bluest water seen through mists of rain, and only one thought had pervaded- "the simple lack of her is more to me than another's presence"…

"Oi, Hawke, can you hear me? Oi, are you still with us? Look at the sneaky pirate stealing the booty off the pretty lady with the impressive staff… along with her virtue… and Orlesian slippers…"

"What? Where? Hey… Isabela! There's no one lurking in the shadows!"

"Are you so sure? Someone could have plundered all the coin from the Champion of Kirkwall before she was aware of the lightness of her purse."

"Hey… Give it back!"

Aveline snorted in a completely "un-lady-like" fashion.

"You'll get your chance to earn it back…"

"Isabela!"

"Where were you? You definitively weren't here. You didn't even blink when I mentioned your virtue."

"Or lack thereof."

"I like that about you, but no changing the subject."

"I was just thinking…"

"What have I told you about your thinking?"

"You find it cute when my brows furrow and lips pucker?"

"There's that… But thinking is overrated, Tiger. Unless your thoughts involve visions of us wrestling passionately between the sheets… or in a dark alleyway… or on a ship. Yes, definitely a ship, with all of those sudden swoons, the glorious peaks and deep valleys, the delicate shudders and sensual sways."

"Oh… so lustful images are worthy?"

"Absolutely! As long as they are followed by impassioned action. Remember that."

"How could I forget when you ferociously remind me every night?"

"Oooooh, you _**are**_ trying to change the subject."

We continued our trek through Hightown with Isabela's lewd flirting, Sebastian's blushing and Aveline's blunt commentary filling the time between. My mind stayed focused on the moment at hand—at least until we entered the Keep and headed toward the entrance hall of the throne room.

How long had it been since I'd seen these marble halls? Since the Qunari held the kidnapped nobles of Kirkwall? How long ago did I duel the Arishok for Isabela's freedom? How long had it been since our mingled blood had been painted across the room? As we walked up those stairs, it felt like time shifted. Aveline, Fenris, Varric and I had just barged our way through a line of Qunari soldiers and then we barreled through the throne room doors, only to be accosted by a ghastly sight. The Arishok had tossed the Viscount's severed head at our feet and bellowed his threat—submit to the Qun or die. No longer did he brood and seethe at what he considered to be the aimless corruption of the city and its inhabitants—now his fury had been unshackled…

"_Hawke, you are basalit-an, after all. You know I am denied Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found. How would you see this conflict resolved without it?"_

Before I could answer, a most unexpected event occurred. Isabela made a delightfully grandiose entrance—flamboyantly toppling over a Qunari warrior and then returning the Tome of Koslun to the suspicious Arishok. Relief and giddiness had flowed through my body as my mind flittered between adoration and anger. The discord had been difficult to blend.

"_Heroic acts of sacrifice, Isabela? What will people say?"_

"_It's your damned influence, Hawke!"_

The Arishok's sense of justice had not been abated though.

"_The relic is reclaimed. I am now free to return to Par Vollen… with the thief."_

I had always considered my life as a "work in progress" and within that was bound a simple belief. People never exist but 'between'. Between borders defining our experiential and pragmatic possibilities. It is there, in our 'middle' between 'extremes', that we endeavor to know and act. It is there that we build and organize our world. It is there that we ascertain and forge our path. Between the beginning and end of all things is where we discern our true self—and where acts of heroism and idiocy spring… or at least, where mine seemed to spring. Father would have been so proud.

"_You have your relic—__**she stays with us**__."_

I had felt elemental thunder rumble within my words, filling and underlining the force of my declaration with a power beyond the reverberations of my voice. I'd drawn the line and if the Arishok didn't believe my openly audacious threat, then he surely saw the stark conviction within my tempestuous gaze. I'd had enough of the Arishok. His condescending attitude, his judgmental eyes, his despotic presence. I may have agreed with much he had to say about the inhabitants of Kirkwall, but his oppressive demeanor and righteous preaching felt like another shackle to be wrapped around my throat. The Templar's lunacy and increasingly unconscionable acts were already well on the way of restoring this old Tevinter prison into former glory: The City of Chains.

The right hand of the Chantry needed no one to help them in their campaign to dominate not only mages, but the citizens of Kirkwall, as well. It was past time for the Arishok, the Qunari, to leave Kirkwall.

"_I'm sure he'll take that well, Hawke." _

Varric always had a way of stating the obvious in a "what kind of sodding idiot are you" tone. It never failed to make me smile—even in the darkest times of the Deep Roads. The Arishok, on the other hand, always had a way of making his statements sound like something less than pleasant.

"_I challenge you, Hawke. You and I will battle to the death, with her as the prize."_

"_What? No! If you want to duel someone, then duel me!"_

"_You are not basalit-an, thief. You are unworthy."_

If Isabella had gone to the Qunari compound she'd have known her plea would fall on deaf ears. Qunari culture had its own riddle of rules and for them within that structure laid complete freedom. But that structure was firm and resolute. In order for her form to have substance in their eyes, she would have had to submit to the Qun—show her worth. What they valued didn't measure in coin, possession or status. Directness, boldness without pretense, comprehending your nature and acting accordingly—these were the virtues they held in honor. The Qun defined the role of everyone and everything in the society of the Qunari, regardless of whether it is spiritual or mundane. While Isabela had been busy avoiding everything Qunari, I was earning their respect. Not purposefully. To my own chagrin, I admit it wasn't deliberate, but rather an aftereffect of my dislike of authority. The Arishok was the pinnacle of Qunari power—authority incarnate. In my dealings with him, I had been scathingly honest in the hopes of making him misstep. Fall a little from the throne he'd planted himself on. Instead, I became basalit-an.

"_Hawke…"_

"_Fenris?"_

"_Are you certain you're willing to die for her? She betrayed you!"_

"_Well, that's not exactly plan A."_

Varric had always been an astute judge of character – with the exception of his brother. He knew the pirate would be livid that someone was fighting on her behalf, let alone fighting with her as the prize. Wisely, he had intervened.

"_Rivaini, you might want to move this way."_

The room had seemed to widen as the mixed masses were herded to the edges of the impromptu battlefield. The Arishok and I had faced off, scrupulously sizing each other up. His confident demeanor, full of superiority and righteousness, only served to infuriate me, so I had reacted by doing something I've never done before in Kirkwall. My hand reached down into my bag of conjuring materials and then slowly, methodically had been removed. Poised in front of my face, with deliberate malfeasance, my forefinger painted a vicious red slash across the bridge of my nose—taunting, goading the Arishok. This was the "barbaric" Chasind look I'd adopted while traveling with my father in Fereldan and once again I claimed it for my own. Although not a blood mage, I wanted the Arishok to know—without a doubt and without shame—that he faced an unchained Saarebas.

The Qunari leader's eyes narrowed and he swayed in the sudden grip of anger at my openly belligerent display. Unflinchingly, I met his gaze, and then smiled in smug satisfaction.

Without hesitation, he charged, but I immediately countered with a blast of cold that had been channeled through my staff. He was slowed by the unexpected freezing temperatures and I was able to dodge his running assault. As soon as he passed me, I sent another wave of conductive cold upon him, but his reach was longer than I anticipated. He twisted and I felt the full the force of his blade upon me. My rock armor spell protected me from being sliced in half, but it offered little protection against the raw power of his attack. I was no more than a thin bit of straw to his might. Instinctively, I cushioned my collision with the wall—which didn't hinder the sound and feel of my cracking bones as I hit the solid surface and fell hard upon the floor. The taste of blood was within my mouth and the Arishok charged once again. By sheer instinct and some luck, I rolled out of his stampede-like path. Once standing, I used my staff like a lightning rod and called spirit energies from around me, and then sent them flying in his direction. The sharp, searing pain in my side reminded me that I had to stay out of his reach.

He turned to face me, as if preparing to charge, and I acted quickly by weighing gravitational force upon him. His slowed assault allowed me to, once again, spin out of his path and I took advantage of my flanking position. I rained fire, lightning and ice upon him—the storm of a century my father had called it. Virulent elemental force bound together in one massive bombardment—a marvelous terror to behold. It had taken substantial energy and focus to control the cascading tempest, but the expenditure was worth it in order to make an impact. So far he seemed to shrug off everything I'd thrown and even this new assault only appeared to enrage him more.

The Arishok charged again but, at the last moment, changed direction, swung his battle-axe in a wide arc which landed solidly on my left side and sent me tumbling haphazardly across the room. The ribs that had been cracked were now broken and my breathing came in short, rapid gasps. The taste and scent of blood filled my senses. The rock armor had once again protected my external flesh from being pierced, but my insides were being crushed with each successful blow. Survival instinct took over and I reacted by pulling earth to me and propelled it across the room smashing it upon the Qunari leader. I finally saw him falter for a moment, having to catch his bearings after being pummeled by rocks. Adrenaline had pumped through my body at the sight of his weakness and I took advantage of the momentary boon.

I rose to my feet with my hand hovering in front of me, and then I squeezed it into a fist. This innocent act emulated the space surrounding the Arishok. As I clenched my hand, the very air enveloping him compressed, exerting unknown pressure upon the whole of his body. I wrapped my will around that force and held on with rigid tenaciousness, tugging upon it as if cinching a belt tighter and tighter. He was immobilized. The only sound he had made was a small gasp as the air had been forced out of his lungs. Moments later, the constant, extreme pressure's effect finally manifested itself as blood began to trickle out of his eyes, ears and nose.

Controlling and maintaining such a force quickly exhausted my energetic reserves and as my will lessened, the Arishok – who'd been furiously struggling against the invisible bonds- broke free. Snarling, rage boiling in his eyes, he gathered himself to charge. The stabbing pain in my side, my labored breathing and physical exhaustion made it clear to me that this was it. As he bore down on me, I bound my will to the earth. I married my body to the very terrain upon which I stood—an immovable object. His charge, sounding like rolling thunder, was an awe-inspiring sight to behold—an unstoppable force.

Out of the periphery of my eye, I'd caught sight of my companions watching in angst-ridden, yet rapt attention. Isabela's unveiled concern had reminded me what I fought for and so I prepared myself for what was to come next. The moment before the Arishok's charging form had collided with mine, my arm swung out in a savage strike and my fist slammed solidly amidst his chest. I believe he thought I was going to attempt to dodge his attack because surprise had registered on his face. In that very moment of contact, I felt as though my revenge—for the subjugated citizens of Kirkwall, for the murdered Viscount—had descended perfect, sudden, like a curse from the Black Gates. My anchored form gave me unearthly leverage and the external force I channeled through my arm gave me godlike strength. Flesh and bone were never intended to withstand such potent energy. When my fist had connected with his body, I shrieked. I heard bones break and saw as my flesh seemed to splinter before my eyes. My shoulder felt as though it was melting from within, but somehow I was able to maintain the directed, turbulent force coursing through my body.

Then there had been nothing. Complete and utter quiet had engulfed the room which just a moment before had been filled with my agonized scream. The energies I'd woven around me slipped away like mist in midmorning light. In stunned silence, I looked down upon the ground and saw the Arishok lying on the floor. By the unnatural depression of his chest, I surmised that the sound of bones snapping couldn't be attributed to mine alone. At that point, I stumbled over to his broken form, and through my shocked and beleaguered haze, I had been witness to his last words. "One day, we shall return."

Aveline had immediately run to my side, had gently wrapped an arm around my fatigued body and held a healing draught to my lips. The sweet nectar had felt refreshing as it slipped past my tongue and down my throat. Immediately, I felt new focus as the haze of pain and discomfort had been lessened and bleeding slowed to a halt. I knew the curative liquid would only help with the minor injuries – the shattered bones and punctured lung would need healing magic. My aptitude never fell down that road, so I would eventually have to see Anders. The warrior woman tenderly wrapped my arm in bandages and fussed over me until she had been satisfied that all that could be done had been done.

Moments before Meredith and Orsino barreled into the room, the citizens of Kirkwall crowded around praising me with congratulatory remarks and sneaking looks of profound amazement. My secret had been revealed and I was unsure of what was to come of it. The nobles of Kirkwall knew I was a mage—had seen me wield arcane and elemental forces—and by the look of the Knight Commander and First Enchanter, they knew what I was as well. But I had defeated the Arishok, saved the nobility, and to my surprise and chagrin, Meredith designated me Champion of Kirkwall. Apparently, having the favor of Kirkwall's aristocracy had been enough political advantage to keep the Knight Commander from throwing me into the Gallows.

The throbbing of my decimated arm had become an unending, caustic ache and I excused myself from the somber celebration in the hopes of heading to Anders' clinic in Darktown. Isabela had kept her distance while Aveline tended to my injuries and during the Knight Commander's speech, but once I had moved away from the crowd, she cautiously approached me.

"_Hawke you shouldn't have done that. You shouldn't have fought him for me."_

"_What? I was just supposed to let him take you? That's insane! I would never let that happen!"_

"_You idealize too much! As if everything the GREAT Hawke touches will be changed for the better! You can't solve everyone's problems, Hawke… and you can't change me!"_

"_I have __**never**__ asked you to be anything other than you are, Isabela! Show me the same courtesy."_

"_You never had to ask, Hawke! It was always in your look. Your disappointed, disapproving look."_

"_That's unfair. And untrue."_

"_I've… I've got to go."_

"_Go? Go where? You saved these people. You came back for them. Why are you running away now?"_

An undefined sadness seemed to have fallen about her like a cloud and the words she'd spoken to me next were barely above a whisper.

_"I didn't do it for them, Hawke. I did it for __**you**__… It was always about __**you**__!"_

In a split second, I had looked into her deep brown eyes, lush and provocative as ocean swept sand, and known with certainty that I was in love with her. At some point during the course of those last two years, unbeknownst to me, my heart had gone and given itself to the pirate. In the next half of that split second, she crushed the gift freely given. Isabela had walked away…

"Ouch! Andraste's ass, Isabela! What was _that_ for?"

"I'm opportunistic. I saw an opportunity and took it."

"You pinched me!"

"No opportunity is too small, Tiger."

Isabela's oddly affectionate nature brought my attention back to our current situation and, as we stood before the locked throne room doors, an eerie sensation flowed through me. A phantom pain shot through the arm that had been shattered while fighting the Arishok and I subconsciously rubbed it seeking relief. I turned to the pirate and nodded—an unspoken request for her to unlock the doors. The very moment those hinged behemoths swung open, chaos rained down upon us.


	6. Dead Champions Tell No Tales p2

**Author's Note:**

Warning #1 - this chapter is a bit more explicit then others. It involves Isabela though – so really… what else did you expect? *wink*

Warning #2 - This chapter has spoilers for the DLC: The Exiled Prince. Consider yourselves warned… again. *chuckles*

For all of those who have clicked Fav and Alert for this fic – Thank you! It's nice to know that someone else out there is enjoying the story being told. I appreciate your time and interest.

For all those who have left reviews- Thank you! Your kind words and encouragement are motivational whips when the muse is looking away. *grin* Also, getting feedback is a great way to discover how well the story is unfolding and what you [the readers] are savoring.

Now… time to finish part 2…

* * *

><p><span><strong>Dead Champions Tell No Tales p2<strong>

"_Father, how did you know you loved mother? There must have been some reason, some difference in her actions that made you know she was the one for you."_

"_You make it sound like a math problem to be solved, my dear."_

"_Well, it sort of is, isn't it? You add up all the people you've met, subtract all of the ones that have qualities you don't like and wind up with someone who has all of those qualities you do like."_

"_Hah… it's not that simple, Maori. Love is like a puzzle posed by emotion… and trust me when I say this, it will not be solved with reason."_

* * *

><p>The doors to the Viscount's throne room had been thrown open, and immediately we were beset by blood mages and demons.<p>

How is it that all the mages in Kirkwall seemed to turn to blood magic? And how is it that my companions and I seemed to be the only ones eradicating them? I'd said it before, and I was sure I would say it again—"I'd like to go one week, just one blighted week, without seeing a crazed blood mage."

For all the years we'd fought together, my companions and I were a well-honed group. Without any signal from me, Isabela dropped into shadow and, along with Sebastian's arrows, focused on the spell casters. Aveline stayed at my side drawing the enemies' attention while I called wild energies to me and rained fire upon them all—minor demon and mage alike. The heated fury pouring down roared within my ears like mountain torrents. Then I turned my focus to the shades- minions of mages who called to them with blood. Even after seeing their demonic kind numerous times over the years, their death-like eyes, unconscious and unfeeling, void of all that's holy, were still able to bore through me and make my soul turn cold. So I drew ice and electricity from the air and channeled their combined might through my staff in hopes of returning the chilly reception. The cold, riding along the electrical arc, hit with the force of an ogre, colliding with the mass of demons in a devastating display of icy annihilation. Those that were left had been quickly cut down by the sharp end of Aveline's sword or the blunt face of her shield.

I turned my attention expecting to see the mages still engaged in combat, but instead saw Isabela, smugly standing over the fallen spell-casters, cleaning the blood from her daggers upon their robes. I marveled at how she made such a morbid task look pleasantly suggestive. When Isabela had noticed my gaze upon her, an untamed, ferocious glint sparked in her eyes and she sauntered over to kiss me… hard and deep, taking my breath away. I'd shaken my head and chuckled. Her unpredictable affection was intoxicating, and brought to mind a bit of knowledge that was becoming more apparent to me each day. Within her, I lost myself. Without her, I found myself wanting to be lost again…

For three years Isabela had been absent from my life, but she had never been far removed from my thoughts. When occupied with a simple activity, in spite of myself, my imagination had frequently carried me to her. Oftentimes, her image sifted through my reflections… imploring me with eyes as luminous, bright and brown as waters of a woodland river, her sultry beauty bestowing its own grace upon me. Unable to bring forth the reality of her, my spirit had beaten itself like a caged bird against its prison bars in vain. My head had wanted to be free of Isabela's haunting, but my heart had refused.

Then the day had come when all of my friends—with the exception of Sebastian—paid an unexpected visit to my estate. I'd just returned from a week long trek with Fen'Harel and Merrill through the woodland vales of Sundermount, a vacation from the politically volatile Kirkwall. Merrill and I were sorting through various herbs we'd collected, when one by one they started to arrive. First, Aveline entered under the guise of needing Fen'Harel to chase around some more of her guards. Then Varric walked in, he was returning a book he'd borrowed months before, one of the Orlesian romances my mother had secretly indulged in. Fenris appeared without an excuse. He had just sauntered in giving a courteous greeting. Anders had been the only visitor whose presence I'd expected—he knew we'd been hunting herbs and had asked us to keep watch for those with healing properties. All in all, it was a rather comical sight to behold. Each of my friends looking dumbfounded and tongue-tied, passing questioning glances and looks of annoyance amongst themselves.

It had been humorous until Varric revealed the real reason that brought each of them to my door.

"_Hawke, look… I don't know how to tell you this, so I'm just going to say it. Isabela is back."_

The name which cut into my soul like a knife had also stolen the breath I'd been about to draw. In an instant, the world within my view receded to the background and the pirate's image dominated my being. The memory of her, unexpected and unadulterated, had delivered an icy hot shard into my stomach—a glacial pang of pain like the stab from a dagger made of ice. Although my insides were being twisted and knotted, I had reacted outwardly by not reacting at all. I kept my face as stone and only gave a brief comment and question as a reply.

"_Oh, I see. When did she return?"_

Varric had filled in the finer details while the other's eyes fell everywhere in the room but upon me. Isabela had returned a few days prior, showing up at the Hanged Man and walking over to the bar as though she'd never left. Everyone had seen her there and engaged her in conversation, but no mention of me passed anyone's lips. The pirate had always been skilled at eavesdropping though, so I was sure she'd known of my whereabouts. Sebastian's absence had made sense in that moment—he rarely frequented the Hanged Man, so he hadn't yet seen her.

Everyone proceeded to carry out their convenient reasons for stopping by which filled the basic requirements for their pretense and then departed. Varric left the book, Aveline took Fen'Harel to the Keep, Anders pocketed some healing herbs and Fenris said a short, courteous goodbye. Merrill stayed with me though, helping with the preparations for drying the herbs. She'd been unusually quiet while in the presence of the others.

"_Hawke, I have something to tell you, but you have to promise not to hate me."_

"_Merrill, I could never hate you."_

"_Then please, __**please **__don't be cross with me."_

"_Merrill! What's wrong?"_

"_I knew Isabela was coming back. I'm so sorry. I wanted to tell you, but I promised I wouldn't. I knew she would arrive while we were at Sundermount… I meant to tell you, but there was never a good time. Or at least, there never seemed to be a good time. It always sounded so awkward in my head. And I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to keep it from you. Well I did, but not in a mean way. I swear I was going to tell you today, but then Aveline showed up, and then everyone else… And then Varric told you…"_

"_You knew?"_

"_Yes, Isabela wrote me. She said she was coming back. She asked me not to tell anyone. I think she exaggerated about the hook hands though, because she really has excellent penmanship." _

Once I'd convinced Merrill that I held no anger toward her, she left my estate and headed back home to the Alienage in Lowtown. Night hadn't yet fallen, so I'd been comfortable with her walking alone.

The knowledge of Isabela's return made my world come to a standstill. I'd felt as though reality had turned upside down and I'd hoped time would eventually sort out the chaos within my head. I should have known better. I waited a full day and even that seemed like an eternity to bear. After a restless night, I was resigned to the fact that the only way to make things right in my world was to see her face to face. I had played through many scenarios while wrestling with the need for sleep, but from experience, I knew none of them would pan out as imagined. She was too unpredictable and, for my part, I honestly didn't know if I wanted to hit her or hug her. Later that evening, while talking with the pirate in the Hanged Man, I found I was wrong on both accounts…

"_Looks like we have company, Tiger."_

Isabela's words jarred me from my reverie and I spun quickly toward the throne room doors in time to see to two assassins being dispatched in a cloud of smoke. I glanced quickly at the pirate, verifying her whereabouts, and then tightened my grip on my staff. She'd unsheathed her daggers, crouching slightly, waiting to pounce while Sebastian drew his bow and Aveline settled in a shield stance that could withstand the charge of a bronto. I drew fire to the edge of my mind and waited for the smoke to clear.

Moments later a stunning, short-haired redhead paraded out of the haze. Sister Nightingale, no doubt. The mysterious agent of the Divine had been revealed to be Leliana—a companion of the Hero of Ferelden. Rumor had elaborated on a more intimate relationship between the two, which had been confirmed for me when she mentioned that the Warden was dear to her heart. I recognized the soft look of earnest devotion when her words glided over the Warden's name, but could also see the sadness of absence. The nature of her lover's truancy was beyond my knowledge though.

Leliana implored us to convince Elthina to flee Kirkwall and seek shelter in the Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux. Apparently the world already had a scrutinizing eye upon Kirkwall and its trouble between the Templars and the Circle, so the pleas we made in defense of the city fell on deaf ears. I'd gotten the impression that events were already in motion and it was just a matter of "when" the hand would strike. In the wake of her departure a thought plagued my mind. "If she was acting as the left hand of the Divine Justinia V, then were the Templars, who were acting as the right, no longer seen as trusted servants in Kirkwall?"

We left the agent of the Divine and headed back toward the Chantry. Upon the return trek, my mind wandered back to the melancholy spied in Leliana's eyes. Had I looked like that during the years of Isabela's absence? Had my look shifted after she returned and we'd spoken that night in the Hanged Man?...

A sudden sense of fear had run through my nerves like the chill of cold wind when I'd crossed the threshold of the drinking establishment that night. The familiar stench of stale vomit and sweat had assaulted my senses, but evaporated instantaneously when I'd looked across the room and caught sight of Isabela—the face I knew as well as she knew the open sea. I'd made my way to her and after an awkward greeting, I consciously chose to shed what had come before. She'd been apologetic—as much as she'd allowed herself to be—and I had surprised myself by accepting her amends without a stern retort.

As we talked over drinks and laughter, the anger and resentment I'd felt at her departure melted away as snow bathed in the first sunshine of spring. We were tentative at first, speaking of frivolous and inconsequential things. We told humorous tales from adventures both old and new, but were careful to not mention the passage of time. By the end of the night Varric, Aveline, Fenris and Merrill had joined us, and we all enjoyed a bit of merriment that hadn't existed since Isabela's departure.

That night, I left the Hanged Man alone, but feeling more content than I'd been in ages. Over the years, I'd had other lovers, but none that captivated my attention fully. They were more like pale shades of grey that held my intrigue momentarily, and then eventually faded away to the backdrop. Some sooner than others, but the result had always been the same—a space within me had remained vacant, and because of that emptiness I'd never felt content or fully engaged.

The days that followed had been filled with mischief and adventure. Once again Isabela joined me, helping me on my various excursions within and around Kirkwall while providing amusing commentary. The friendly banter between her and I resumed, but this time it felt like a form of light-hearted flirtation—thinly veiled and full of promise. I had always enjoyed our clever wordplay.

It didn't take long before desire and lust won the day and we fell into bed together. The draw between us had felt magnetic, a force of nature that would not be denied. The sex we had that night in her room at the Hanged Man was fantastic. Even after all the years between, we had still known how to rile and ravage each other to the edges and depths of the sweetest oblivion. But in the aftermath I realized that as perfect as the moment was for me, it would never be perfect for Isabela.

"Love is not for me." That's what she'd told me those many years ago, so with her words armed as my motivation, I had slipped out of bed and dressed silently and quickly. I thought sleep had taken her, but discovered I was wrong as I padded quietly toward the door.

"_Hawke, where are you going?"_

I had wanted to keep our pairing simple. If I stayed any longer in the pirate's bed, I would have wanted to spend the night. Since I knew that was not an option for her, that inevitable desire would become a complication for me.

"_I've got to go."_

"_So… what? You don't want to stay and try to fully temper this storm between us?"_

"_Isabela, I learned long ago that for all of my magic, I cannot tame the wind."_

I continued toward the door, heading out of the room, but before I turned the handle, Isabela spoke.

"_The wind can change direction, Hawke."_

The statement had stopped me in my tracks and I turned my head until I caught her form in my periphery.

"_Pardon me?"_

Even in the dark shadows, I saw as Isabela sat up, nestled in the bedding we'd just shared. Her sultry stare emulated the seductive tenor of her voice.

"_You know—shift direction at anytime, without a moment's notice."_

Isabela's long absence had left a palpable void, like winter upon my soul, and its cold tendrils had still been fresh in my memory.

"_Yes, Isabela, it can. But it can just as easily taper off and leave you stranded in the middle of the deep, blue sea. Sails furled."_

"_So you'll need to hone your senses, Hawke. Learn to anticipate the moods and flow with them. You turn into it and let its embrace capture you."_

I turned fully around to face her.

"_Isabela…"_

She slipped off the bed and slowly made her way toward me. Her natural grace had been enhanced by the breathtaking elegance of her bold, full-length nudity. My mouth became parched at the sight. Candlelight bathed her form in delicate, flickering hues and the dark, curly locks of her hair—appealingly splayed across her shoulders, seemed to soak in the luminance. Although mesmerizing, ethereal was not a word I would ever tie to her. Isabela's innate sensuality was too vivid and dynamic to be mistaken for anything other than carnal. As she crossed the space between us, her lissome fluidity had been like a seductive dance. Well-toned muscles flexing easily beneath softly illuminated bronze skin, curvaceous hips swaying hypnotically with each step taken, the impish gleam in her eye being matched by the slight smile of her lips—all of which could bind me in ways by which no demon had means.

When she'd reached her destination, standing a hair's breadth from me, she simultaneously reached behind my body with one hand—locking the door again—and deftly raised her other to brush upon my cheek a tender, coquettish caress.

"_I don't think you have enough pirate in your life."_

Standing in front of me, provocative and unapologetic, the pirate's beguiling form had woven into every sensory nuance within my repertoire. I took in the magnificence of her strong, sultry figure. Felt the raw heat radiating off her body. Tasted her once again as my parched mouth began to salivate involuntarily. I smelled the familiar, yet exquisite blend of scents—her personal ambrosia—a salty sea breeze, the musky aroma of sweat, and something else. A sweet, unknown spice. The proximity of her allure was maddening.

Still, for all of Isabela's magnetic seduction I was determined to leave the room and my intention was carried, not in my words, but in the tone in which they had left my lips.

"_I don't want to think anymore."_

"_That's good, Tiger, because I don't want to talk anymore."_

"_Isabela…"_

She looked away, and I had been surprised to see a hint of an uncharacteristic rosy flush on her cheeks intermingling with the flickering candlelight.

_"Please, Hawke… stay…"_

When she turned back to meet my gaze, gone was the seductive pirate full of carefree bravado and self-assuredness. In its place stood a somewhat vulnerable woman, a tad hesitant and unsure—perhaps a trace of the person she had been before she'd lost so much. The pirate finished her request in a soft voice, barely above a whisper.

_"…just tonight, then we can go back to how it was before... or not..."_

I looked into her deep brown eyes, slightly timid and uncertain, and smiled softly. I knew then that something had shifted for both of us that night. A moment before I would have sworn the change had been mine alone, but delving into those moody depths, seeing her willingly unguarded, I knew she'd been affected too. As I nodded my head, I saw the delicate path of a tear sparkling down the side of her face. My hand reached out, cupped her cheek and gently wiped the moistness away with the pad of my thumb.

"_Isabela…"_

"_Hawke, shut up and kiss me."_

Before I could act, she had stepped up to me and quieted any and all thought by kissing me deeply, unhurriedly holding the moment as if by will alone. A pleasant agony tingled down my spine as her curious mouth adeptly explored my face and neck, leaving traces of erotic magic on its tactile voyage. She leaned in, salaciously imprinting her full length upon me and through the thin cloth that lay between us I'd felt her supple curves brush against me. Felt her hardened peaks press into my flesh. Felt her heat burn desire into the very core my being. Her sensory overload enslaved me to every move and erotic touch she'd made. Then, as if knowing she'd bewitched me, her soft, supple lips brushed upon my ear. Her warm breath heightening my arousal further and, in provocative undertones, murmured one simple word—"_Bed._" That dulcet request deliciously reverberated through my being, and I instinctively bit down on her shoulder as my arms embraced her, crushing her against me in a languishing need for further contact. As my fingertips dug into the pirate's hips, the last vestiges of my will melted into a desperate hunger and I forgot why I'd wanted to leave.

When I pulled away, I saw the feral, wanton look in Isabela's eyes, and then her mouth was upon mine again. In an instant, passion-filled floodgates matching her intensity broke within me, and a carnal growl rose from my throat while she skillfully shed my clothing amidst our entwined lips and limbs. The skin on skin contact felt as though we were merging together in a maddening delirium. Never had I felt so dominated and full of need for another. My desire rose quickly consuming all other thought and moved me into action. Decisively, I pushed the pirate back onto the bed and descended upon her in a maelstrom of ardent kisses and fervent caresses.

Invaded by an overpowering, tenacious longing, my intrepid fingertips mapped the hills and valleys of her naked form seeking to beckon the same crazed turmoil she haphazardly corralled in me. My head bent down nuzzling into her neck and once again breathed in her ambrosial scent. The unmistakable fragrance carried sumptuous, alluring promises and ignited a desire so primal that it invoked another low growl from me. I wanted to exhaustively devour her, so I proceeded to nibble and bite, tasting the salty sweetness of her skin. My lips left a trail of lingering kisses down Isabela's neck, across her collarbone and dipping within the valley between her breasts. Continuing my sensuous exploration, I nibbled a path downward—across her belly, over her hips and slipping between her legs—traversing the landscape where arousal is born and laid bare. I noted each low moan and sharp intake of breath from her along the way, and like a treasure map, my lips and tongue used it as a guide to finding her release. When Isabela's fingers wove themselves into my hair—pulling me harder into her—I'd known the moment was close. Seconds later, in a sudden flurry of motion, her breathing stopped, her legs tightened around my head, and a wash of raw power seemed to overtake her as she cried out my name and her body began to spasm almost rhythmically.

After a few moments had passed and her spasms subsided, I lifted my head and had been greeted by a sight that took my breath away. Isabela was lying naked amidst disheveled sheets with an exquisitely sweet expression upon her face as moonlight illuminated her sublime form, bathing her in a divine aura. The perspiration from her exertions dampened her flesh creating a soft radiance that shimmered with each rise and fall of her chest. She was the most beautiful image I'd ever seen. She was like a moonbeam sparkling across the crests of ocean waves—celestial in essence, beautiful in its fluidity of movement. When she opened her eyes and saw as I stared in undisguised adoration, her hand reached out, cupping the back of my head and brought my face to meet hers. The pirate's lips pressed upon mine with gentle persistence, as if savoring the pliant feel, and then sank in with slow, passionate determination.

Bewitched by the all-consuming sensations; I melted my lustful, hungry form further into her, giving way to an intuitively choreographed exchange of energy. The thirst between us had not yet been quenched. Our bodies, driven by a fierce, needful ache, moved together in a primal union born of longing and insatiable desire. Her fingers skillfully kneaded sensual zones and lit fire to thousands of throbbing, electrified nerve endings throughout my body. Acting as an aphrodisiac, these sensory wildfires tingled across sensitized skin and spiraled together into a passionate tempest, which threatened to engulf me in a visceral madness.

Each touch of skin upon skin provoked our mutual swelling fervor. Each caress of hands and fingers added a new fire to our impassioned storm. Each moan signaled a step further to the edge of the magnificent abyss. The delightful pressure and heat emanating from her body mixed with the exotic scents and flavors of her being, conjuring themselves into a quickly rising sensual oblivion. Breathing became more labored until panting was all that remained. Until coherent thought was all but left behind and we had passed the hallowed point of no return. Our intimate dance of licentious arousal persisted in a volcanic torment until I had the sensation that we merged imperceptibly into one another like the hues of a prism spiraling blissfully toward a rapturous climax.

We found that zenith of sensual abandon many more times that night. Comprised of paradoxical elements—a comical adventure, a frenzied storm, a blissful crescendo—our ardent passion was all-consuming until our needs were satiated and exhausted, and eventually they faded quietly away like shapes breathed on a mirror.

In the aftermath of our amorous union, we lazed sleepily together on the bed, nestled in each other's arms. The heat radiating from Isabela's skin combined with the thick blankets was enough to keep me tranquil and warm. With my head resting on her chest, listening to the hypnotic rhythm of her heartbeat, I attempted to memorize every eclectic nuance of her. I knew the serene moment wouldn't last, so I did my best to capture it in my memory. Still wrapped within her soothing embrace, I leaned in and nuzzled her neck, drinking in her scent once again as if it was my lifeblood. In response, her arms tightened around me, holding me near, enveloping me in lingering depths of enraptured adoration. The pirate's lips moved upon my ear and softly she murmured five heartfelt words.

"_I came back for you_."

When I woke a few hours later, the early morning sun was bending through the upper window and its rays touched upon Isabela with delicate magnificence. Her sleepy form snuggled into mine as new thoughts washed through me. She was a surprising and amazing creature. One that I may never fully understand, but would willingly spend a lifetime in the pursuit of comprehending. She needed to feel free to be fully alive, but that freedom did not mean she wanted to be alone. I believe during the years spent apart we both had finally learned there was a difference between living **for** someone and wanting to share your life **with** someone. When she had asked me to "stay", I'd felt it was for more than just the moment. It was a request that went beyond the one and tumbled into the infinite next. I'm not sure if that had been wishful thinking or an accurate translation, but for the first time in my life, woven within her arms as the sunrise fell upon us, I had wanted to stay and solve the puzzle.

The most important lesson I had to learn about Isabela—maybe the hardest I've ever learned about anything—was that she was her own, that what she gave me was of her choosing and the more precious because of it.


	7. Pitfalls and Pendulums

**Author's Note:**

Wow… so… it has been a very long time since I updated this story. But even though much time has passed, I have to say, I really enjoy writing about these characters and exploring what goes on between the scenes. I hope you do, too.

For a timeline reference, this chapter takes place before the Arishok, before Isabela and Hawke define themselves as being in an exclusive relationship.

Malcolm Hawke's quote on friendship is paraphrased from Ralph Waldo Emerson.

One last note… This goes out to my beta reader, Lyaksandra. Thank you for your input, insight and involvement. You've been especially generous with your time of late for which I am extraordinarily grateful.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Pitfalls and Pendulums<strong>

"_Maori, what's wrong?"_

"_I thought Garret was my friend. I thought he believed in the same things, but it turns out I was wrong. He believes as the Templar and Chantry believe… that mages should be locked in the Circle Towers; apostates should be hunted down; maleficar should be killed." _

"_I am sorry, my dear. Disappointment is not easy to bear… specially when it involves someone you consider a friend."_

"_He is a friend no more, Father. I told him nothing of me, of course… but still… I don't think I will ever have a friend I can truly trust." _

"_You are too young to be so cynical."_

"_I am eighteen and have yet to call someone friend! To have someone who likes the same things that I do, who is kind, who shares my views. Someone outside my family to share my time with!"_

"_Maori, I know this is hard to hear, especially on the eve of such bitter disappointment, but the beauty and splendor of true friendship does not come from an outstretched hand, a kindly smile, or the joy of companionship; it is the spiritual inspiration that comes when you discover that someone else believes in you, is willing to trust you and views you without judgment."_

* * *

><p>Aveline and I had not spoken in weeks. I had nothing to say to her, or rather, nothing I had to say to her would be pleasant, so I did not go out of my way to visit her. The guard captain didn't stop by the estate either, so I assumed her words to me would have been just as delightfully sour. To Mother's credit, she asked no questions about the shield-maiden's absence from our weekly dinner—a tradition that had started soon after arriving in Kirkwall. It wasn't unusual for Aveline's guard duties or my adventures to get in the way of the gathering, but it was unusual for her not to send a letter or personally deliver an apology for having to miss the engagement. If Mother suspected there was a rift between the two of us, she was gracious enough not to ask any questions. Fen'Harel though was not so charitable. By the end of the second week, he showed his irritation at not being able to chase the guardsmen by using my shoes as chew toys.<p>

In all the world, in all the planes of existence, there is only one weapon that I know of which is sharper than a sword, stings more than any arrow and is more powerful than the strongest brute. Words. When strung together passionately, they can light fires in the hearts of men. They can wring tears from the hardest hearts. But just as easily they can destroy the most devoted soul. That is what happened between Aveline and I. Words spoken harshly, carelessly, in the heat of the moment, leaving a mark that will never disappear. Because once spoken, even within vast wonders of magic coursing through my blood, those words we exchanged can never be taken back, they can never be removed. All I can do is to look on the mess that was left in their passing.

Some people believe in the Maker, some in the fate, and some in good luck. I've never given much thought about the Maker, too much Chantry and Templar influence regarding the interpretation and implementation of His doctrine for my tastes, but I do believe that by our own action or inaction we have the ability to make our own fate. I also believe that every now and again good fortune favors those who are courageous and bold. After surviving an excursion in the Deep Roads, a host of blood mages on the Wounded Coast, the constant scrutiny of the Templars and manipulative demons in the Fade I began to think that my life would become easier. That is exactly when my luck ran out.

The night was cool and cloying as Isabela, Fenris, Varric and I maneuvered down in the underbelly of Kirkwall: Darktown. It was to be a routine errand, pick up healing herbs from a black market vendor and deliver them to Lady Elegant. Over the years, Elegant and I had developed a mutually beneficial working relationship. The better the ingredients I delivered to her, the better the potions she supplied to me. Her prices were usually fair and she discounted the value of the herbs, but it also helped that more often than not our trade and bartering turned into a far more intimate exchange. I found out early in our relationship that a satisfied Elegant was a generous Elegant.

We hadn't gotten far into our journey when, without preamble, bandits were upon us, seeming to spring out from every dark, shadowy corner. Varric, who had seen them first, called out a warning, but they were on us so quickly that I barely had time for the most rudimentary protection spell. They had numbers on their side, but their attack was without strategy or finesse. The four of us, who had fought side by side for years, were a well-honed group, knowing each other's strengths and weaknesses, which was a key factor in turning the fight to our side. That is, until the bandits brought in a bloody, sodding Ogre. At that moment, it was clear to me that we were in serious trouble. The only person I knew who could take a hit from an Ogre and then ask for more was Aveline. And without her to distract the big, ugly brute, the fight became infinitely more dangerous for me and my companions.

As Varric annoyed the Ogre by peppering it with witty banter and bolts from Bianca, Fenris deftly wielded his two-handed sword cutting down bandits two at a time. Fortunately the only spell-caster around was me, so I proceeded to call fire and ice from the very air sending the destructive elements to the dozen or so bow wielders stationed at a safe distance from the melee combat.

"What shall it be?" I yelled at them. "Will a fiery tempest melt flesh from bone or shall winter's bite make brittle your very soul?"

There were times theatrics turned the tide in a close battle, but admittedly a part of me just liked seeing the terror in the enemy's eyes as flames erupted at the tip of my staff and then, when I slammed the opposite end to the ground, a ball of fire was hurled into their numbers.

So while I kept them occupied with dodging both fire and ice, Isabela dove in and out of the shadows using both of her daggers, striking down their numbers with lethal efficiency.

I always enjoyed watching Isabela showcase her sublime but deadly skill in the midst of battle. Her movements were both graceful and minimalistic like a dancer whose fluidity was bound not only in the current pose but knowing how it blended into the next. She was a master of the art and rarely did she encounter an adversary who could withstand the rapid, calculating punishment of her twin daggers. The problem with daggers though, lies in the very thing that makes them so dangerous. While the small hilt and blade make their attacks quicker and more precise, because of the range of the blade, the one wielding the dagger is required to be very close to their opponent. Isabela had proven over and over again that this style of close quarters fighting was where she thrived. Until, that was, she encountered an opponent more than twice her height and who knows how much heavier… such as an Ogre.

When the great behemoth turned toward her, Varric shouted out another warning but Isabela was already engaged with two other bandits. The bolts from Bianca were barely having an effect and Fenris was too far away to distract the Ogre in any timely manner. That left it up to me to do something, but I was currently occupied with maintaining my protection spells and keeping the bandits' arrows at bay. I watched out of the corner of my eye as the Ogre continued advancing, waiting for Isabela to make some daring move to escape. To flamboyantly slip out of the Ogre's path and evade his deadly attack. But as the giant approached her, teeth gnashing, fury raging in its eyes, I realized that the thief was not going to be able to avoid its attack. So, when the Ogre raised its arm to deliver a devastating blow, I dropped my protection spells, rechanneled the virulent energy in the form of lightning and sent it, weaved along with my wrath, to strike the bastard down where it stood.

In the same amount of time that it took for the lightning to hit its mark, the Ogre to howl and then crumple to the ground, Isabela dispatched the two bandits. Immediately after, she then turned toward me, a look of surprise on her face which I initially thought had to do with the Ogre's death. That's when the first arrow hit me and I knew my assumption was incorrect—she had seen the archer take aim and shoot. The arrow lodged in my right shoulder, making my arm muscles to spasm, which caused my staff to fall to the ground. The world all around me slowed but the sounds around me became amplified. A hot searing pain exploded in my shoulder and then quickly spread down my back and across my arm. I saw another drawn bow, but my body felt as stone, unable to move. The second arrow got me in my left hip and turned me sideways. What strength had held me upright until then slipped away like water running down a hill and my legs buckled beneath me. My knees cracked when they hit the ground, but I felt no pain just as I no longer had any feeling in my right arm. Whatever pain I should have been experiencing had quickly gone beyond the point of bearable and dropped into the abyss of numbness. Shock was settling in. Somewhere on the periphery of my brain I registered a sour taste upon my tongue and the sweet smell of Andraste's Grace in my nose. Woven within those dissimilar impressions I knew I had been poisoned. Then I felt the thump of a third arrow in my back, near my spine. The strength that was left in me evaporated and I fell face first to the ground. The impact with the dirt floor was both stunning and suffocating. Because of the arrows protruding out of my body, I landed harshly on my side and my right cheek was lying on ground as dust engulfed my senses—stinging at my eyes and filling my mouth and nostrils with a thick chalky substance.

"_Oh balls_," I thought, "_Aveline is going to be pissed_."

I was paralyzed as numbness quickly began to sweep through my body. I heard the voices of Isabela, Fenris and Varric jumbled together with the clamoring beat of my heart which pounded in my head like the sound of rumbling thunder. My vision shrank as I feebly tried to reach for my staff with my left arm and the world around me spun faster and faster. I could feel nothing except for the cool dirt upon my cheek. That single sensation became the center of my existence, but then that sensation became too weak to hang onto and the centrifugal pull spun me out. I sailed, fast at first, and then slower into a black space where I drifted without weight or direction forever until I bumped against something and still spinning dissolved into the blackened vortex of infinity.

Infinity turned out to be busy. It revolved more slowly than the world I had been spun from and there was a lot of random noise and suddenness of light coming and going. There was movement, jostling, and long stretches of dark silence. There was an occasional blurred human sound and the feel of my breath and some pain and the thud of my pulse that sometimes enveloped all other sounds. The slow revolutions grew slower. The thunder of my pulse became quieter. My throat was sore. The light was too bright. It was hot. I shifted in bed. There was a figure in a white outfit looking down at me. It was at that moment that I realized I wasn't dead.

"Welcome back, Tiger," the figure said.

The voiced sounded familiar, feminine, but I couldn't place it and my vision was too blurry to see anything but faded shapes.

I smiled and tried to speak, but no sound came out.

I closed my eyes for a moment and infinity revolved some more. When I opened them again, it was dark except for candlelight.

"Bollocks! You should have been there to protect her, Aveline!"

"You were there, Isabela! Why didn't you protect her?"

"You know that's not how it works! You're her shield-maiden! I may have her back, but you're supposed to be at her side. If you two could take your heads out of your asses for one minute, you might realize that whatever you're fighting about isn't worth… this…"

Isabela and Aveline were arguing. That seemed normal. It was their arguing about me that wasn't normal. I tried to focus on the meaning of their words, but vague thoughts, as elusive as the smell of primrose, drifted in and out of my consciousness. Then I remembered that Aveline and I argued, too. It occurred just after we saved Feynriel in the Fade.

After Keeper Marethari explained what happened to Feynriel—that he was trapped in the Fade—and explained what would be required to save him, she gave me a moment to talk to my companions. I asked Aveline and Varric to accompany me and if I had been paying closer attention to her, I would have asked someone else and avoided this whole mess. She was hesitant, unsure, and before the Keeper cast the spell that would take us to the plane of dreamers and demons so we could retrieve or kill Feynriel, the shield-maiden had said, _"I can't imagine what aid I'll be able to offer in a realm of dreams and magic."_

I should have recognized the depth of Aveline's apprehension regarding the Fade, but she had always been so solid, she had been my rock on so many occasions and in the most chaotic times of my life, I couldn't imagine anything shaking her resolve.

She once told me_ "I'll always be here for you,"_ but then we entered the Fade and everything changed. First we faced a sloth demon calling itself Torpor, who tried to make a deal with us regarding Feynriel. We refused and killed it on the spot. Then, we encountered a Pride demon which successfully tempted Varric with the offer of power to get back at his brother, Bartrand, for betraying us in the Deep Roads. I have to admit that that offer would have tempted me as well. Once the demon and Varric—who by accepting the offer fell under the demon's thrall—were defeated, Varric was expelled from the Fade. Then came the seductive desire demon who planted the insidious seeds of doubt and confusion between Aveline and I. It tempted the guard-captain with the return of her dead husband, Ser Wesley, and whether it stemmed from the guilt she harbored regarding his death or the ever-present loneliness imbedded in her life since his passing, she accepted. She gave into her desires, thereby giving into the demon's thrall. In the same manner as Varric, once defeated, Aveline was expelled from the Fade.

Before I left the plane of dreams and magic, I encountered a very grateful Feynriel who was now free of any demon's shackles, and who had decided to seek out the Tevinter mages regarding his unique abilities. I wish everyone who traveled to the Fade could have walked away with a positive experience, but apparently the only fortunate sod that night was Feynriel.

The following day I received a message from Aveline requesting my presence at the guard barracks. When I arrived, I was quickly escorted to her office. After staring at each other for a few moments, she attempted to apologize for her actions in the Fade._  
><em>

"_I'm sorry. I should have stood beside you. I don't expect that will be enough, but there it is."_

I told her that we were friends and there was nothing to forgive then I asked if there were any lingering ill effects from her experience with the demon.

"_It keeps drifting back. I can feel the… want of it. That thing perverted a memory that I was at peace with. It cut me open. If that's what mages contend with, then I am less opposed to the Gallows."_

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"_Locking up all mages goes too far," I said angrily. "I thought we agreed on that?"  
><em>

"_I don't know. Who could resist that? Anders didn't, and seems quite proud of the fact. Merrill aches for some kind of bargain. It's obvious. I'm left to think… mages are willful in a way that I cannot understand, or are not mortal. I don't find either comforting."_

"_By mages you mean __**me**__!"_

"_No, but you do have a certain…"_

"_Enough! I've heard enough! You sound like a bloody Templar."_

"_Not all Templars are corrupt."_

"_Neither are all mages! Dammit, Aveline, if those are really your true feelings…"_

"_They are."_

"_Then our friendship has run its course."_

As I stormed out of the guard-captain's office, I felt a depth of loneliness that I hadn't experienced since my father's death, and the sorrow of that loss ached within the very roots of my soul. This was my experience with Garrett playing out all over again, but on a much more devastating scale. Aveline, the first person I ever truly called friend, the first person who offered a helping hand to my family and I, now only offered a closed fist. I felt the burn of betrayal course through my blood, and for the first in my life, I hated being a mage. I hated what my arcane senses and knowledge deciphered… what others would never comprehend and the price that such abilities cost me.

This unnavigable rift between the guard-captain and I was the reason we did not speak for two weeks and is why she was not in Darktown with us, which consequently led to my being injured. And that of course concluded with me lying unhappily in bed feeling as though I had just been pummeled by an Ogre. The gods have a brutal sense of humor.

The day following the argument between Isabela and Aveline, I was able to stay awake for more than a few minutes and hold a coherent conversation with those who visited my bedside. From Isabela, I found out that Lady Elegance had procured the anti-venom which saved my life. From Merrill, I found out that Isabela had exchanged a few choice words with the potion merchant. I would have loved to been conscious for that interaction. Then, Anders stopped by with a bouquet of sweet smelling flowers, Varric brought a book containing dirty limericks, and Fenris dropped off a bottle of wine. He said we would open it once I was up and walking.

There was one person who was never mentioned, but whose presence—now that I was fully awake—I found difficult to ignore since I knew she had visited me while in the midst of fighting off the poison.

To their credit, Bodhan and Mother made sure I was comfortable and ate even when I made it very clear that I wasn't hungry. I think Fen'Harel felt guilty for not being in Darktown to protect me because he rarely left my side. He either slept on the floor or stayed watchful at the end of my bed.

Three days passed before Aveline came to visit.

"Isabela, did you tell my mother to go jump the Viscount?" I had had my morning bath and was lounging on my bed with Fen'Harel curled at my feet.

"Don't be silly. I wasn't that crude. I told her that there were plenty of eligible noblemen who'd love to take her to bed and pleasure her until her toes curled."

"Isabela! That's my MOTHER!"

"Yes, Hawke. Your mother, not Aveline."

"I heard that, whore." The guard-captain walked into the room but didn't meet my astonished gaze.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, big girl. Hawke, your mother is lonely. She could use some companionship… or just a good shag."

I groaned audibly. "I don't want to hear that…"

"Well you did, so get over it. Now, I'm heading to the Hanged Man to get a drink. I think it's time you two lovebirds get some sense about you and kiss and makeup."

I rolled my eyes in annoyance while silently hoping that the hurt between us could somehow be mended. I'd had a lot of time to think while lying in bed, about friendship and what it means not only to be a friend, but to call someone else a friend. In all intimate relationships, honesty is essential, and of course it helps to build trust and understanding. I have learned that words by themselves mean little if they are not backed by action. While family is found by chance, friends are made by choice. This is why our friends are a reflection of who we really are and why a person with character stands clear of those without. A true friend is a person of character; a true friend will always be there when called upon.

"_Aveline, I don't need a friend who changes when I change and who nods when I nod; my shadow does that much better. I need a friend who I can trust. Someone who believes in me… even when I don't."_

"_My words at the barracks were spoken without thought, under the shadow of something that I will never fully comprehend. I can tell you this, though… while I may not trust other mages, I do trust you."_

My Father told me that building a friendship takes time and cannot be rushed. The relationship must be mutual but sometimes it is unequal. Its ebb and flow will change depending on the circumstances. The key is to love your friend like a brother or a sister without measuring or comparing what they do for you. And if it's right, then a true friend will feel the same about you.


End file.
